Onomatopoeia
by Thistledownwind
Summary: When tragedy strikes one of the marauders, the remaining three must pull together to help their grieving friend. But is it enough?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: An old story I found lurking in my files the other day. First HP fiction. Please be understanding!**

**Summary: When tragedy strikes one of the marauders, the remaining three must pull together to help their grieving friend. But is it enough?**

**Warnings: Dark thoughts and themes. No slash. **

**Onomatopoeia**

It's raining again.

I love rain.

I don't understand why people curse when the first few droplets fall, scrabbling for umbrellas with a heavy sigh.

It leaves a fresh smell. A pure smell. The air is clear and slightly misty, heavy even, clinging to your clothes and glistening like snowflakes in your hair. I don't mind. To me it seems more of a comfort than a nuisance.

He says it reminds him of tears, and so he always feels sad when it rains. I disagree. It isn't like tears at all. Rain doesn't sting when it rolls down your cheek, or leave a salty tang in your mouth when it slips onto your tongue.

And it doesn't make me sad. Not at all. Moreover, it seems to cry with me. Rain doesn't make me cry. It only rains when I cry.

Whether this is my imagination, I neither know nor care. All I do know, is that no matter where I am, indoors, outdoors, alone, in company, when that weight grows in my chest, making it hard to breath and my stomach turns inside out, a droplet of water always falls, cold but comforting, and rolls down my cheek.

Sometimes it's a torrent of heavy droplets, falling so fast it bruises when it hits me.

Sometimes its light flecks of spray, spattering my face in a light sheen of moisture.

He hates rain. He says it's a nuisance, weighing down your clothes and your hair with water, obscuring your vision.

My vision is always blurry, without my glasses on. When it rains, the water covers them, too. Sometimes it's good to not see the truth. Someone once said: 'The eyes are the window to your soul.' Well, my window is always closed.

…I like my eyes.

When I look into a mirror, it's one of the only things I see which doesn't lie. My eyes are like me. Whoever that is.

"Prongs?"

It's him again.

"James?"

…He hasn't called me that in ages.

The rain lashes against the pane, as though fighting to get to me. I watch as every droplet forms a tiny thread of what seemed like spun glass and slid slowly down the outside of the pane, as if gradually giving up hope. I felt the same way.

Pain by the window pane… onomatopoeia?

"Please, come away from the window."

I do not look up at him. Even if I did, it would change nothing. He would still be staring at me, trying to see through the window. It was closed. At least, to the others. But not to him.

He is standing beside me now. Without looking, I can see him. He'll seem sad, almost sympathetic. I do not look at him. I'll become angry if I see his sympathy. Nobody, and I mean nobody, knows how I feel, or can even touch the surface of the thin curtain which separates me from them.

"Oh, James…"

He doesn't know what to say. No one does. They just stand there and wait as if they expect something to happen. They're always disappointed. Every day, now. For a week.

"Prongs, I got you something to eat."

Oh. This is going to hurt.

"I need you to try. Please?"

Some invisible force makes me slowly turn my head to look at him. His dark eyes bore into mine, but somehow, they seem softer than usual. And I see no pity, only a desperation.

I shake my head violently, my dark hair dancing across my vision and settling in front of my eyes, like an immature five year old, but do not avert my gaze.

"It's soup. It'll just slip down. I promise."

I struggle with myself. Then shake my head again.

"Remus has a crush on Snivellus."

I'm so surprised my mouth falls open in shock, and I jerk as though electrified. It hurt, too. My body hasn't moved for a week. Faster than the eye can see, he quickly shoves a spoonful of the hot, sweet smelling liquid into my mouth and holds it there.

The spoon is hot, and I swallow without thinking, letting out a small whimper as I feel my tongue sizzle. He smiles slightly, a vague pride and smugness filling his eyes as he reloads the spoon.

"Just kidding. Come on, James. We'll take it one spoon at a time, just you and me, okay?"

He's serious. Sirius is serious. Ha ha, onamatopoeia. Again. He seems so different now. Almost like a spell has settled over him, maturing him far beyond his years. I mean, he has the maturity of a three year old anyway, but still…I'm not sure I like it. My Sirius wouldn't look so desperate and sad, much as the words are inadequate.

Obediently, I open my mouth reluctantly and he spoons a much larger portion of what I eventually define tomato soup, after he has blown on it to cool it. Strangely, I am not particularly bothered by being treated like a baby. I certainly don't feel any older right now.

I feel…lost.

Although that doesn't really describe it. I feel more like I'm a limp, boneless corpse; being buffeted this way and that by a torrent of rushing water. At first, I tried to find something to cling too. Now, though, I just let it flow.

"That's it." He mutters softly, settling himself on the edge of the window ledge (onomatopoeia again) that has become my home. He smiles as he continues to lift the spoon to my mouth and reload it again.

"Did you know I actually made this myself?" he murmured, half to himself. I showed no signs that I had heard him, but inwardly, my mind was filled with the ridiculous vision of Sirius trying to make tomato soup, with a very stupid apron on. Somehow, I couldn't find it funny. I felt too numb.

"Yeah. I broke into the kitchens, and took over. The house elves nearly had a heart attack."

He chuckled softly, and I found myself subconsciously moving back towards the window, to allow him to sit down properly. It almost feels like I'm the child, and he's the caring parent. It's strange. All our lives, it's been me who has to drag him up from whatever deep pit he's managed to think himself into. God, did he really feel this bad every time?

It comforts me.

He comforts me.

There's a sharp intake of breath as his hand accidentally brushes my own on its way to my mouth. He carefully sets down the spoon in the bowl, and, his eyes still fixed on mine, takes my left hand between his larger ones. I shiver involuntarily as warmth floods my bone chilled fingers, spreading up my arm like vipers, giving me goose bumps.

"You're freezing."

No shit, Sherlock. That's what happens when you sit on a hard stone window ledge, in November, for a week. I can feel the soup making its way down to my stomach, and it sits there, warming my belly and rising to my chest, thawing my heart, as corny as that sounds. But, for some time, I really believed it had stopped beating.

I suddenly convulse, the strong desire to throw up overpowering my pride. I start to shudder, feeling like the entirety of my insides are jumping up into my throat.

I lean over the ledge and spill the contents of my stomach onto the floor of the tower room. He almost drops the bowl, but replaces it onto the ledge without spilling any, and drops to his knees beside me. I can feel his hand making comforting circles around my back, as I find I have nothing more to dispel.

I choke on my own breath, air jerking upwards then being pulled back down suddenly, making my throat ache. My eyes sting and well up, hot tears spilling down my cheeks in frustration and pain. It hurts.

Why does it hurt?

I thought it had stopped hurting.

I close my eyes, pressing my lashes tightly against my cheeks, trying to make it stop. In the blackness, the world is spinning unsteadily. My right hand reaches out blindly, and brushes something soft. I clutch at it, pulling myself back onto the ledge with shaky legs as the seizure passes and the world slams to a halt.

"It's alright, Prongs, it's alright. I've got you. Shh."

He sounds shaken, almost frightened. I open my eyes, although they feel so very heavy, and stare up at him, my vision blurry. I squint, and realise my glasses have fallen off. He smiles shakily, and lifts me more securely onto the ledge, and I realise how surreal the situation feels. Squashed together on a windowsill, in the loft room at the top of the north tower. I wonder hazily what Remus would make of all this.

"James?"

I glance up at him. His arms are wrapped around me, as though he is afraid I'm going to fall again. I'm glad.

I'm afraid I'll fall, too.

I'm tired. So tired, I can feel my bones ache with it, seeping out and making me feel drowsy. The fit had made me weak and feverish, my face bathed in cold sweat. Sirius' face was growing fainter and distorted, and I clutched blindly for him, my fists twisting his shirt tightly. To my dismay, I feel the back of my eyes sting again, the tears crisscrossing with the newly dried tracks of the previous moisture. I should feel afraid, embarrassed, but I feel nothing.

Just…cold.

My hands tremble as I crumple against him, turning into his shoulder, my head falling against his neck. It's blessedly cool, my flushed skin making him jolt as he pulls me closer, whispering words of comfort and uttering jumbled hushing sounds. His arms are firm against my back, and the world flickers, then dies around me. In the darkness, the torrent of water rushes around me.

But I do not go with it. I cling to the one unmoving rock in the screaming rush. It grabs for me, and I cower away, breathing shallowly and harshly. I screw up my eyes, away from it.

It rushes past…

I feel…

Safe…?

The rushing sounds fades, replaced by blessed silence as I drift, drowsily, away.

**A/N: So, bin it or continue? Either way, thanks for reading, and please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Special thanks to those who reviewed! To avoid being 'killed in my sleep' here's the second part.**

**Onomatopoeia**

Have you ever been afraid? I mean, truly afraid?

I thought I have. But now, I'm not so sure. I've been terrified, even petrified before, but never truly fearful. I suppose most people think the term 'fear' is below terrified and petrified by way of integrity, but I disagree.

I mean sick with fear. Intoxicated with it, like it's smothering you with a sweltering blanket. As James lurched forward, seeming as though his very bones had shattered, so sudden was the movement, I thought he was dying.

It seemed like it.

James had been trembling, shaking so hard I could almost hear his teeth rattling inside his skull. And he had been so _cold. _His hands had seemed so small and bony in my own.

My hands are so very different from James'. You can tell a lot about a person by their hands. I've often thought my own seem a little on the large side, but James has dismissed that, saying they merely seemed so next to his own, and to Peter's and Remus'.

Remus has very sculpted hands, quite weak and with long fingers. A scholars hands. Peter's are very small and chubby, fumbling with anything and always sweaty with fear, or nerves. James has very thin and bony hands, with long, brittle feeling fingers which are in fact quite strong. I don't know how to describe my hands…big?

I didn't know what to do, at first. I'd been going to see him for six days, ever since…well, I thought I'd go mad. He just sat and stared at the rain.

I tried opening the window, but he began to look down at the drop to the ground with a glint in his eye I didn't like the look of, so I locked it shut. He hadn't been eating. Or sleeping, as far as I had seen. According to Mcgonagall, I was the only one he even acknowledged.

He seemed so small then. So…brittle. Like at any moment he would just snap in two. I could feel almost every bone in his back and hear the rattling of breath in his thin chest. I almost cried then.

Almost.

I've only ever cried once before in my life (at least, as far back as I can remember) and that was when James fell off his broomstick. It was a Spring morning, about a year after I had been 'adopted' by the Potters. It was the day after James' birthday, and he was eager to try out his new 'Cloudrunner 3000' in the back yard.

Only problem was, it had to be serviced before it was used, as the Cloudrunner series always were tailored to a specific persons requirements. We, however, didn't know this.

I thought he was dead.

He broke three ribs and a leg, but, the worst of it was, that for about thirty seconds, he stopped breathing.

I panicked. Really panicked. I had a hysterical fit, and eventually fainted when Mr Potter told me his son was, in fact, still alive.

From what Mrs Potter told me when I woke up in the hospital in the bed opposite James', we travelled side by side in the ambulance.

But James isn't dead.

He's right here, but I cannot say he's wholly alive. He feels very delicate, both in mind and in body, even though that sounds like something I heard in church.

I wish I could do more for him.

After a vomiting fit, I think he passed out against me. I can't be sure, but he seems to be breathing easily enough. Slowly, deeply. James is a heavy sleeper at the best of times.

He's feverish. His face is flushed and he's still shuddering slightly. I don't know what to do…I've never seen him like this. Vulnerable.

When he's awake, it's like he has these barriers around him. Almost…like he's in some sort of glass elevator (double glazed?) around him. He plays it up, acts like he doesn't care.

He's only ever James when we're alone together. Around Remus and Peter, he's Prongs. Around the rest of the school, he's James Potter, the popular, big headed guy. It's like he has different faces.

Around me, he's just…James. He can be funny. Kind. He's not as much as a twit as some people think he is. He can even be a good listener, and sympathetic, if he wants to. To me, he's not just 'that Potter boy' or 'the Griffindor seeker'. To me, he's my brother, my best friend.

His knuckles are white; he's clutching me so hard. I wrap one hand around his, afraid the very bones in his finger will break if he squeezes any harder, absurd as it sounds.

I gently pry each finger, one by one, away from my t-shirt, noticing idly that it is stretched and twisted beyond recognition. If it was any other boy, I'd knock them good if they so much as touched my new t-shirt.

Not James. Not now.

His feverish forehead rests against my neck, and I can almost feel it pulsing dully. God, he was only ever this bad when we got so drunk we couldn't wiggle our big toes. That's our test on drunkenness. If you can't wiggle you're little toe, you're slightly pissed. If you can't wiggle you're big toe, my God are you in deep shit.

I smile slightly despite the predicament. Across the mountains by the lake, a pale silvery evening light is beginning to creep over the peaks. It's growing darker.

From the faint clatters and jumble of voices coming from down below, I guess it must be dinner time. Perfect.

I had been planning James' 'rescue' (more from himself than anything) for when the corridors were completely empty. Somehow, I could just picture James knocking my handsome block off for carrying him in such a state down a crowded corridor.

Oh, James. I wish I could just tap you with my wand and make you change back again…

…What a stupid idea.

I learnt long ago that magic cannot solve everything.

It can help when you want to get blind drunk, though.

Well, either way, I have to get James to the hospital wing before either a) he wakes up or

b) the students finish dinner

Some of these kids seem to eat faster than the speed of light.

I sigh, place the tip of my wand lightly against his temple and mutter "Voluncto." Remus showed me this spell when I put my back out lifting my trunk down the stairs. It's a lightening charm.

I don't quite know how I managed to get to the hospital wing without falling over. James may be smaller than me, but that doesn't make him any easier to carry. And…I got my foot stuck in the trick step.

That is a bugger.

It presented a barrage of problems. Firstly, I couldn't use my hands to pull my leg out because I was holding James. Second, I couldn't put James down because he might roll down the stairs and break something, and third…I think my leg is losing circulation.

James moaned weakly and stirred. I gritted my teeth and tried to wiggle my leg free without overbalancing.

Somehow, I managed to get us both to the hospital wing unscathed.

Mental note: this time, it was me carrying Prongs unconscious to the hospital wing. It's his turn next time.

"Black!" exclaimed Madame Pomfrey, looking half shocked, half relieved at my burden. She had visited James, of course, but he had simply ignored her. It was me who had to physically force the sustaining potion down his throat.

I felt dazed. Even after a week, I still felt like this was all one long nightmare. As I helped Madame Pomfrey lower a still shaking James into a hospital bed, James gave a small whimper, and clung to me even more fiercely than before. I took hold of his hand, and with the other held his face.

"It's alright, James." I said, quietly, as his hand latched onto mine. "I'm not going anywhere."

I sunk down on the edge of the bed while Madame Pomfrey arranged the covers over James, having discarded his shoes and socks. I stared despondently at his pale, unmoving face.

He looks so small.

His dark eyelashes and hair clash horribly with painfully pale skin. There are deep circles beneath his eyes, and dried tear tracks mark his cheeks like scars. His jet black hair spills messily across the pillow and over his face, gathered in spikes around his cheeks. I smooth them away, feeling suddenly very tired.

The room seems a little blurred at the edges…

"Perhaps you should lie down, Mr Black." The kindly voice of Madame Pomfrey filtered through the clogged sieve which was once my brain. She hurries off to her office, her feet making echoing thuds on the smooth, tiled floor.

I sink onto the bed, curling around James protectively, wondering briefly whether Remus had started to worry. I fling my arm across his chest, and rest my forehead against his temple, my shoulder length bangs mingling with his tousled locks.

He frowns slightly in his sleep, and turns his head slightly so his nose is nearly touching mine, letting out a deep sigh. I smile tiredly at him, wondering vaguely what he's thinking.

Yawning slightly, I touch my lips gently to his clammy forehead, before letting my eyes fall shut and surrendering to the gathering darkness.

**A/N: Comments are appreciated, as this was written quite a few years ago and so my writing style has changed a lot. Thanks for reading!**


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